


Opportunities for Conversation

by orphan_account



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Awkwardness, Bonding, Conversations, Gen, Post-Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-15 11:31:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3445544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Old work, uploading for posterity. Some Medic and Scout gen fic - teammate bonding, and all that. Surprisingly enough, Medic's a little more patient with Scout's banter than some of the others.</p><p>- - -</p><p>Scout frowned at him, missed a step in his fit of indignation, and landed face first in the dirt. He lay there for a moment, sprawled out in a pile of weapons, empty soda cans, and stray crumpled-up papers from that stupid briefcase.</p><p>"Shit."</p><p>Just as abruptly, he found himself yanked to his feet again, strong hands clasping his shoulders. He barely recognized the owner of the hands at first — how could he? He was used to most of his teammates having their gloves on — then turned and realized he was face to face with a stern, unamused, and altogether unforgiving German doctor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Opportunities for Conversation

In some matters, Scout could be generously described as ‘oblivious’. His constant attention-seeking methods and bragging about his battlefield exploits had already alienated half the team; his cheers of triumph after a kill only earned scornful comments from Spy (did the stuck-up Frenchie really _have_ to mention Scout’s ma all the time?), while Demo looked on with kindly pity, Engie frowned in Scout’s general direction, and Soldier flat-out ignored his attempts at conversation, barking orders at him instead.

For a guy on a team that relied on cooperation, having a bunch of teammates that hated your guts was a _pain in the ass._

But, like all things, that didn’t stop Scout from trying. Sniper didn’t talk much, sure, and he was kind of solitary and surrounded himself with poisonous animals, but that meant he was a good listener, right? (The not-talking thing, not the poisonous animals.) And, like so many other ill-advised ideas, Scout figured it was worth a shot. Couldn’t hurt.

So, the next time he saw the rugged Aussie crouched behind the window that shielded the upstairs vents in Turbine, Scout parked himself beside him, taking a seat as he popped open a can of soda. The other team was probably going to make a charge for the intel pretty soon, and Scout wanted to be ready, using the boost from the soda’s sugar rush to knock the enemies out before they could even get _near_ that stupid briefcase.

"Hey, Snipes. Excitin’ round today, huh? Did ya see me make a charge for dat intel? Almost had it, I swear. I’m gonna get it next time. You just watch."

Sniper grunted.

"How’s it going with the snipin’?" Scout did not wait for an answer. "Hey, you usin’ that new rifle ya got? Dat’s pretty neat. I like the feathers ya tied to it. What bird did those come off a’, huh? The owl? I heard dat dumb owl hootin’ all night last night. Kept me up, I couldn’t sleep. Did ya forget to feed it? I think dey eat mice, right? Hey, I saw a bunch a’ mice the other day, Engie’s cat was chasin ‘em." He took a gulp of soda. "Maybe ya should set a trap, so dat way you’ll have enough to feed the dumb owl."

He received no response.

Undeterred, Scout continued. “Hey, just make sure your owl doesn’t eat dat squirrel a’ mine. Chucklenuts, you know? The one with the lil’ bandana? I sewed that for ‘im, just like Ma taught me how. One a’ Soldier’s stupid ‘coons caught hold of ‘im an’ almost killed ‘im with rabies. He’s fine now, I just don’t wanna have to worry about ‘im gettin’ eaten. You’re not gonna let dat happen, right, Snipes? Right?”

He glanced over.

Sniper was nowhere to be found.

Scout scrambled to his feet and scanned the area, swilling the rest of his soda in one long gulp, then crushed the can in a bandaged fist, tossing it up in the air as he leaped down off the ledge. A sudden rocket blast knocked the empty can out of the air, and Scout dodged and ducked, cursing loudly while trying to dispatch the enemy Soldier with a frantic barrage of shots. “Goddamnit!”

As the lifeless body toppled to the floor, Sniper finally revealed himself, stepping out from behind one of the shipping crates, rifle in hand. “Ya got ‘im.”

"Hey, Snipes." Scout greeted him with his customary enthusiasm. "Why’d ya run away dere? Coulda helped me, ya know, dat rifle of yours is supposed ta shoot Jarate, right? Woulda made it a little easier to take him down once my soda wore off—"

The marksman interrupted him, and gestured to the fallen body of an enemy Pyro, flame-resistant suit riddled with darts. “Oi was busy.” Then, after leveling a withering glance at Scout, he strode off, muttering something inaudible and unquestionably impolite.

Scout didn’t try to talk to him again for _at least_ a couple hours.

\- - -

Other, similar situations played out throughout the course of the day.

First, Scout got the cold shoulder from Engie after delivering a well-meaning critique of his Sentry-wrangling technique (in retrospect, considering that Scout’s idea of ‘well-meaning critique’ involved loudly yelling about where to aim, Engie’s reaction was understandable).

Then, Heavy continued to not appreciate having his shoulders used as a platform to allow Scout to get a higher jump, and responded in Russian with a severe frown after Scout offered his pathetic attempt at an apology. Spy snickered, and as usual, failed to offer a translation.

The last straw came when Scout attempted, innocently enough, to talk to Pyro. He knew that he wouldn’t get very far, of course - when someone can only communicate in unintelligible gibberish, the conversation’s kind of doomed from the start - but it was worth a try, considering that Pyro seemed to be the only teammate who could stand Scout anymore.

The incoming burst of airblast said otherwise.

\- - -

Getting injuries after the end of the round was disappointing enough, but falling down the stairs and practically breaking your leg was just plain old _embarrassing._ Scout limped along near the middle of the pack, heading out of the respawn room and inhaling the fresh crisp air, all while mentally replaying his failures from the day. He clasped a can of soda tight in one hand, considering drinking it for an energy boost if nothing else, but a sharp twinge of pain shooting through his leg gave him pause and he fell further behind, cursing out loud. “Aw, shitdamn—”

Without warning, Heavy brushed past him, almost sending Scout toppling over into a patch of muddy gravel beside the walkway, but he steadied himself enough to clamber to his feet and hobble after him. “Hey, Heavy. Got a Sandvich to spare? Just a bite? I’m dyin’ here.”

"Nyet." The behemoth of a Russian shook his head and continued onward, minigun zipped up in its carefully sewn and upholstered case. "Maybe tomorrow."

Scout frowned at him, missed a step in his fit of indignation, and landed face first in the dirt. He lay there for a moment, sprawled out in a pile of weapons, empty soda cans, and stray crumpled-up papers from that stupid briefcase.

"Shit."

Just as abruptly, he found himself yanked to his feet again, strong hands clasping his shoulders. He barely recognized the owner of the hands at first — how could he? He was used to most of his teammates having their gloves on — then turned and realized he was face to face with a stern, unamused, and altogether unforgiving German doctor.

"Hey, doc." Scout tried to sound calm but the words escaped him as more of a squeak than a suave tone. Nothing like tripping over the guy on the team who was most likely to saw right through you on off hours. "Didn’t see ya there."

"Zhat much is clear." Experiencing some unfamiliar twinge of empathy, Medic reluctantly knelt and gathered an armful of Scout’s pistols, examining each in turn with a small and scornful frown. These weren’t his preferred type of weapon - for, unlike Medic’s needle-guns, the standard pistol was wholly unsuited to deliver biotoxins - but Scout did, to his credit, care for his weapons well. Each appeared clean and well-maintained, more so than Soldier’s pathetic and battered rocket launchers, Demo’s tape-repaired bombing weapons, or even Heavy’s prized minigun. What Heavy possessed in strength, he lacked in fine motor control; several times he had brought a bag of gun parts to Medic’s office, claiming that Sascha needed a doktor.

Medic usually referred him to the Engineer for a second opinion.

Now, Medic handed back the armful, dumping it into Scout’s messenger bag. He had a reprimand on the tip of his tongue, but saved it for a later time; Medic was nothing if not observant, and he realized that Scout had received his fair share of ill treatment today at the hands of the other team members. He shut his mouth instead, and strode beside him, trained eye picking out the limp in an instant. “Are you hurt?”

"Nah, doc, just a little bit, I’m gonna be alright." What was more embarrassing - to admit he was airblasted down the stairs by Pyro, or to say he tripped and fell? Both were completely humiliating. "Pyro missed a shot with the airblast an’ knocked me down the stairs. I think I hurt my leg."

"Ah." Medic’s sense of ethics instantly overrode his obedience to the Administrator’s mandates. Scout may have been a little brat in the eyes of the team, but he had saved the doctor’s life on more than one occasion. That, if nothing else, earned him a slight modicum of respect. "Hold still."

And, miraculously, Scout listened to Medic, and did the one thing he was known for _not_ doing. He froze, holding perfectly still, and let the beam of the Medigun wash over him, securing him in a healing glow.

"Hey, thanks, doc." After the repair was complete, Scout fell into step next to Medic, fighting the urge to run ahead of him just for the sake of outpacing the team. He had a reputation to keep up, after all. But Engie was hauling a toolbox up ahead, and Scout distinctly remembered the Texan’s good aim with a wrench (and the resulting soreness) and decided not to risk it. "Sorry about all a’ those weapons falling out all over the place. I gotta haul my own weapons, y’know? Nobody’s gonna do it for me. I mean, I know you know what I’m talkin’ ‘bout, you haul your own weapons too, dat heavy Medipack a’ yours, dat thing’s gotta weigh, what, forty, fifty pounds? Damn." Scout glanced to the side, surveying him. "I’m used to it, though. Got a lotta experience carryin’ stuff around. Back in Boston, I used ta deliver milk an’ crap, an’ newspapers, too - anything they needed me ta deliver, I did it, ‘cause I was so fast. Could outrun anybody in a five-block radius. Pretty sure I could outrun anybody in the city actually, but I never got around to testin’ it, jus’ raced the kids near where I lived. Always won." He stopped to catch his breath. "But most a’ my jobs involved carryin’ an’ haulin’ stuff, so I guess I ain’t surprised dat this job’s the same way."

Medic nodded, mostly quiet throughout this monologue. There was something soothing about listening to the constant stream of Boston-accented speech, a welcome diversion from the gunshots and explosions that had rung in his ears throughout the whole day. Besides, most of the team diligently avoided making conversation with Medic on off hours, so Scout’s sudden friendliness was a surprising twist of events.

Medic decided that he did not mind.

"I have not visited very many American cities, but I vould imagine zhe demand for manual labor vas high, ja." He cleared his throat and attempted a polite response. "Vhen I vas first beginning my medical career, I vorked as a secretary, recording zhe lectures. Every day I sat vith a typewriter to transcribe vhat zhe professor said, und recorded diagrams of vhat vas being dissected during zhe lab experiments." He neglected to mention that he had usually sold copies of these notes, and made a handsome profit in the process. Until his scheme was discovered. "So ve have all had our share of challenging jobs."

"Oh." Scout pondered this. "Dat’s frickin’ awesome. No wonder you’re so good at healin’ us up, you actually paid attention in the classes. I woulda just daydreamed, or— or wondered what the dead guy did when he wasn’t dead, or anythin’ but payin’ attention. I couldn’t a’ made it through medical school. No way."

"Mm." Medic considered this. "Perhaps not, but at least you are not sqveamish. Besides, I have seen you bring health packs to vounded teammates. You are not so incompetent in zhis matter after all."

"Nah, dat’s just ‘cause I listened to ya when ya gave us instructions, the first day. Not so hard, ya just gotta get there, and I can do dat ‘cause I’m one a’ the only people on this dumb team who can run somewhere without gettin’ shot down…" And on and on it went, a series of monologues delivered by Scout on all sorts of topics, which he hoped would be enough to keep his audience of one entertained all the way back to the home base.

And, to Scout’s absolute delight, Medic listened.


End file.
